The Color of Wounds

by Frank Martorana

  “He needed someone to blame,” Kent said. “You were the logical one.”

  Mitt shook her head. “Actually, he blamed you for everything. Still does. He believes he was on the brink of a major discovery when you shut down his experiments.”

  “What has he been up to between then and now?”

  “He went on to N.C. State and got his Ph.D., but he never finished those early experiments. And, ever since the Burman bullshit, he has been unable to land the kind of prestigious research position he envisioned for himself. Like at Vanderbilt, Marvin made the short list for a top slot in their psych department. It seemed like he was finally going to get his break. But at the last minute, they tied him to the Burman and it all fell through.”

  “All because of me.”

  “Yep. Because of you he is languishing in obscurity. And he can’t stand it.”

  “Why doesn’t he blame Burman A&M, or that pompous professor. What was his name?”

  “Professor E. Randolph Bentley.” Mitt said his name like a curse. “I have no idea why it was you, not him. You know, that bastard went on to retire emeritus a few years back.”

  “Jesus. There is some irony.”

  “About a year ago, Tice saw an ad Dr. Muelick ran for a research assistant in the Journal of American Veterinary Medical Research. Remember that?”

  Kent nodded, “Sort of.”

  “So he hatched this plan to make you pay. He faked his resume and got the job at the CVC. We laughed at that. No one questioned a thing on it, and the whole thing was total bullshit.” She paused, remembering. “He’s been toying with you ever since. Didn’t you wonder why you couldn’t find a bomb even though he gave you a chance to look? Ahead of time, I mean. With the bomb squad and special dog and all?”

  “Of course, we wondered,” Kent said.

  She stared directly at him, giving him one last chance to think. One last try to solve the riddle. When he said nothing, she said, “Because there was none!” like it was the punch line of a joke.

  Kent did not laugh.

  “There was no bomb at the Ledyard Estate or the church when your guys went in.”

  “Then why did the places explode?”

  She chuckled. “The bomb arrived after you all left.”

  “How?” he asked, the picture of frustration.

  She saw it and let him hang. “You have to remember, this whole thing is a big, diabolical game for Marvin. It figures then that incorporating his behavioral studies into the plot would fascinate him. Right? Like it would be some warped form of justice to have his research be your demise.”

  Kent held.

  “So that’s what he did. He used laser-guided pigeons.”

  Mitt paused so Kent could ponder the idea, but he wasn’t having it.

  “What are you talking about?” he said.

  “He trained birds to carry things to wherever he aimed his laser pointer. It was easy. Not very scientific. Kind of a party gimmick sort of thing. He used pigeons.”

  “He actually had the balls to show me. When I was in his lab. Except he used starlings.”

  “Yeah. Well he figured out pigeons could carry a bigger payload. And then he trained them to peck at their harness when they got to the dot. That was the icing on the cake.”

  “The detonator.”

  “Uh-huh. Designing the detonator was a blast for Marvin. Pardon the pun. He joked that it was too bad he couldn’t patent it.”

  “Where’d he get the plastic explosive?”

  “Somewhere in New York City. It wasn’t that hard.”

  “So he hides somewhere nearby, shines a laser beam on Willard Covington’s head, or widow’s watch on the Ledyard mansion, or the church steeple, and sends a rigged pigeon to it.”

  “You got it.”

  “Every site had pigeons around it, anyway.” Kent said.

  “You guys never even noticed.”

  “Too bad there were people around, too. Killed a really nice lady.”

  Mitt bit her lower lip. “I know. That was awful.”

  “What about the money?” Kent said.

  “Oh, that.” She laughed and waved the revolver toward the kitchen. “It’s behind the bottom drawer of the stove. Go on. You can get it.”

  In the kitchen he knelt on the linoleum, removed the stove drawer, and reached in. Immediately, he felt a plastic bundle. When he pulled it out, he saw it was the three hundred thousand dollars in the same bag he had dropped off the bridge into the Chittenango River, still taped shut. It didn’t look like they had even bothered to open it.

  He carried it back to where Mitt lay waiting patiently. “Nobody even counted it?”

  She shrugged. “Marv really isn’t interested in the money. But that should tell you I’m for real.”

  “Why’d he kill Phyllis Muelick?”

  “She overheard us fighting that day. I snuck up to see Marv in the lab and he went ballistic. He started yelling at me, called me every name in the book, and then started on how I was lousing up his whole plan. He ranted about how the police would be able to tie him to the bombings through me. You would figure out you were his only subject. Then he heard Phyllis call you. So he killed her. Stabbed her.” She snapped the fingers of her hand that was not holding the revolver. “Just like that.”

  “Wait a second,” Kent said. “What do you mean, I was his only subject?”

  “Oh, that,” she said. “Marvin set up ‘the experiment of all experiments,’ as he called it. In his perverse way, all this time, he has been testing the effects of stress on you. The bombings and the ransom and all the rest of it are the stressors. The weekly EEG and blood tests he’s been running on you are totally bogus. He actually believes he’s running the Burman stress experiments on you. I’m surprised you didn’t catch on.”

  Kent sank to sit on the foot of the bed. He toyed with Lucinda’s ears. “This whole goddamn mess is just Tice’s head game?”

  “Absolutely.” Dee gestured at the money. “There’s your proof. Marv doesn’t want the money. He’s known all along the town can’t raise five million dollars. He’s just playing with you. He’s creating weird stresses in your life and watching you twist.”

  Kent let out a growling noise. “It’s all about revenge?”

  Dee bit her lips and nodded. “Exactly.” Then, absentmindedly, she added, “Green wounds.”

  “What?”

  “Green wounds,” she said again. When she saw his blank look, she said, “Some philosopher once said, ‘A man that studieth revenge, keeps his own wounds green.’ I don’t know why I remember that, but I do.”

  Lucinda stepped to the bed and rested her head on Mitt’s lap. For the first time, Kent saw the mystery girl smile a genuine smile. Silence lingered while she stroked Lucinda’s head—then she began to cry.

  CHAPTER 38

  Kent pushed himself up off the foot of Dee Mitt’s bed. “I’ve got to go.” He had heard all he needed to hear from her. “You don’t have to stay with him. You know that, don’t you?”

  She looked at him and he remembered the fledgling robins, fallen from their nest, that he and Merrill used to rescue when they were boys. Her eyes held the same confusion and terror the birds displayed when lifted from the grass and placed in a tree crotch, out of reach of cats or lawn mowers. He always wished he could make them understand that they were trying to help. He wanted Mitt to understand that too.

  “I can get you out of this house. There are places you can go where Tice will never find you.”

  Still she didn’t answer.

  “Will you at least think about it?” Kent said.

  Her head gave the faintest nod.

  “Good. You call me anytime. Anytime.”

  She nodded again.

  He reached down and patted her shoulder. She let her hand slide from the weapon to
his hand and squeezed.

  “I don’t have to tell you Marvin’s dangerous,” she said. “He’s killed three people already, and he despises you more than any of them. Be careful.” She turned on her side, her back toward him. End of conversation.

  Kent let himself out of Mitt’s house. On the porch, he glanced over and saw that her neighbor had left his porch. He stood there, bag of money in hand, and drew in a breath of fresh air like a man who’d been trapped in a cave. Mitt was not that many years older than Emily. But Tice had ravaged her, if not sexually, then certainly psychologically. Kent had caught glimpses of her former charm. Even as distressed as she was, she managed to come up with a few witty pearls. Mitt had been a bright young star in the scientific community and Marvin Tice had smothered her. He hadn’t used a bomb to do it, but still, he had destroyed Dee Mitt just as sure as he destroyed the statue and buildings in Jefferson.

  He crossed the street to the Cherokee, threw the bag of money in back, and let Lucinda get in. They hadn’t pulled a hundred feet from the curb when a pigeon flew across his line of sight, just beyond the hood. Under normal circumstances, he would not have given the bird a second glance, but there was something odd about the pigeon’s movement. It flew awkwardly, with a dysrhythmic wing beat. At first he thought it was hurt, but as he lost sight of it, his veterinarian’s sense of observation kicked in. He replayed its flight in his mind. No, it was not injured. It was encumbered by some weight or restraint.

  “Shit!” he said, and locked the brakes, spinning the Cherokee a hundred and eighty degrees. He was staring straight at Mitt’s house when his vehicle was rocked by another of the crushing explosions that had become so familiar.

  Through his windshield he saw Mitt’s house engulfed in flames. Its splintered roof settled onto the tiny front yard. With both fists he pounded the steering wheel, then shook it hard. He let his forehead rest on the wheel. For the first time in a very long time, he felt the righteous indignation that justifies murder.

  At that moment, Kent’s mobile phone began to ring, and he let it. There was no one he wanted to talk to. Finally, when it persisted, he picked it up.

  “Hello,” he snapped into the receiver.

  “Good day, Dr. Stephenson,” came the calm, static-masked voice of the bomber. His attempt at sarcastic good humor was reduced to a mechanical growl.

  “Tice, I know that’s you!” Kent shouted into the mouthpiece.

  “Shut up and listen. I’m sorry I don’t have time to send you a postcard, but I think you can appreciate that things are moving fast now.”

  “Yeah. Too damn fast,” Kent said. “You killed Dee Mitt, didn’t you?” He spun his head left then right, scanning three-sixty degrees. “You’ve got to be around here somewhere, you sonofabitch. You saw me leave the house.”

  “Not as close as you think, Doctor. And, of course I killed her. She got sloppy. I think she actually gave up the fight. But I suspect after your little talk with her, you know all about that.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Kent said, “and believe me I’m going to…”

  “Cut with the bullshit,” the bomber said. “All you need to know is that my next target is one very close to your heart.”

  Kent swallowed hard. He could hear the mechanical voice breathing through the silent phone line, enjoying how he controlled Kent, taunting him. It made Kent even more furious.

  “Do you want to take a guess?” the voice said.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you my target and the exact time it goes up. You still won’t be able to stop it,” the voice said. “You couldn’t stop the others. You won’t stop this one.”

  “You just tell me where and when and I’ll stop you. You bastard.”

  “I doubt it.”

  The pause that followed was so long Kent thought he may have hung up. Then the bomber said, “Your beloved Simpatico statue. You can watch it from your office window. One o’clock.” The line clicked dead.

  CHAPTER 39

  Kent let the Cherokee remain in the street. He heard the sirens of first responders and watched stunned residents creep out onto the sidewalk to stare at Mitt’s house. He stared at it, too. Watching the flaming building, he fantasized about capturing Tice. One shot between the eyes while the miserable sonofabitch begged for mercy.

  A horn blast startled Kent back to reality. A driver signaled him to clear the road. He jammed the Cherokee into gear and screeched the tires as he brought it around and headed for the CVC.

  He raced through the village, ignoring speed limits and traffic signals. He punched Merrill’s office number into his mobile phone, but before it rang, he disconnected. He dialed in Merrill’s car phone number. Merrill would be on his way to the explosion on LaMont Place. The chief picked up before the first ring was complete.

  “Merrill, I figure you’re on your way to the explosion. Right?”

  Merrill recognized his brother’s voice. “Why am I not surprised that you know about it already?”

  “Well, forget it. Let someone else handle it. I just came from there. There is nothing you can do.”

  “What were you doing there? How the hell do you manage to be around so many catastrophes?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Listen. The bomber is Marvin Tice. He’s going to blow up the Simpatico statue in twenty minutes.”

  “Jesus Christ, Kent. Did you get another postcard?”

  “No. He called me. It’s him using that voice machine. But I don’t have time to explain all that. What I need you to do is meet me at the statue with a shotgun and several boxes of number eight shells. Right now. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.” Merrill agreed, obviously wondering what he was getting into. “I’ve got a shotgun here in the car and I can get number eights at the hardware.”

  “Good. Get to FOAM Park as fast as you can. Park out on Route 20. Don’t approach the statue till I get there. Be careful. Tice will be hiding around there someplace, and he’s more dangerous than ever.” Kent hesitated, then added, “And Merrill, tell whoever you send over to Mitt’s house that there’s a woman’s body in the bedroom.”

  Kent pushed the “end” button before Merrill could ask any more questions. He released it and immediately dialed Pine Holt.

  When Aubrey answered, he said, “Thank God you’re still there.”

  “Kent, what’s going on? Loren and I just heard something on the scanner about another explosion in the village.”

  He could hear the dread in her voice.

  “It’s true. The police are on it. But I need your help. Tice just called me and said he’s going to blow up the Simpatico statue in twenty minutes.”

  “Tice? You know it’s Tice?”

  “Yes. Marvin Tice is the bomber. I’ll tell you about it later. Right now I need you to meet me and Merrill at the statue in FOAM Park. I need a good set of eyes. It’s dangerous. I want you to know that, but I can’t risk getting too many police around. It could scare him off. Merrill being there won’t bother him. Tice figures he’s got Merrill’s number. Plus he hates Merrill almost as much as he hates me.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “My car and Merrill’s will be on Route 20. Bring my binoculars. They’re on the top shelf in the hall closet.”

  His voice dropped. “Bring my .38, too. It’s in…”

  “The stand next to your bed. Got it.”

  “Right. And Aubrey, make up any story you want, but do not bring Loren.”

  “Okay.”

  When Kent skidded the Cherokee onto the shoulder of Route 20 in front of the CVC, two things caught his eye. One, the Simpatico statue in all its bronze glory in the middle of FOAM Park. The other, Merrill standing next to his cruiser, shotgun across his chest, like a blue-suited sentry. He was looking at Simpatico, too.

  “Five minutes to blast off,” Me
rrill said as Kent climbed out of his vehicle. “That is, if your timetable holds true.”

  Merrill’s sarcasm told Kent his brother was on edge. “Nothing has changed,” Kent said. He turned toward the sound of tires screaming to hold pavement. “Aubrey is here. We’re ready.”

  He took the .38 revolver she extended to him as if it were a decaying fish and motioned for her to keep the binoculars. He squatted next to Merrill’s car and signaled the other two to do the same. “Keep your heads down. Tice is out there somewhere.”

  Aubrey and Merrill nodded.

  “Okay. Here is what’s going on,” Kent said, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the traffic a few feet away. “Tice has trained pigeons to follow a laser light. He can beam a dot onto any object he wants, then release a bird and it will go to the dot. He actually demonstrated it for me when I was in his lab. I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out then. He puts a little harness on them with a pouch attached. In his demo, the birds picked up little items, put them in the pouch, and flew them back. But Dee Mitt tells me they can carry a C4 payload to a target just as easily. He’s built some trigger device they peck to detonate it.”

  Kent paused, to see if Aubrey and Merrill understood. They both held looks of disbelief. “He’s using a pigeon-guided missile system,” he said.

  “Kamikaze pigeons,” Merrill said.

  Aubrey gestured with a fingertip, two quick flicks at the air then spread her hands open like a burgeoning explosion, “Tap, tap, boom!”

  “Exactly.” He waved at the statue. “And his target is Simpatico. So, here’s the plan: The two of you position yourselves a safe distance from the statue, but where you have a clear view of it. Aubrey, you keep watching for a bright red spot to appear on it. Use the binoculars and watch up high especially.”

  Aubrey nodded, fondling the binoculars nervously.